The Education of Princess Maria
by Mark of the Asphodel
Summary: In four parts.  How a naive and willful child developed the courage and skill to save her brother when no other could.  Lesson One: Denial.


**The Education of Princess Maria**

I do not own _Fire Emblem_ or any of its characters.

This story is rated "T" for battlefield violence and its aftermath- blood, trauma, and so forth. Contains spoilers for _Fire Emblem: Shadow Dragon._

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_Lesson One: Denial_

In the midst of battle, Maria is happy. The sunlight kisses her face, wind ripples through her hair, and she is now outside Castle Deil, looking back on its towered silhouette. Her sister, even more tall and strong and magnificent than Maria remembers, stands before her, and for a golden moment they think only of each other- and of the brother whose shadow looms over them both like the nimbus clouds that stain the southern horizon. But a battlefield is no place to catch up on the lost moments they might have shared; Minerva stiffens, and she casts a sharp glance past Maria's shoulder. Maria turns her head, fear stealing into her heart; a young swordfighter in the flamboyant clothes of a mercenary approaches her, but the sword is sheathed, and the mercenary appears more distraught than anything. She takes him for a girl at first, at least until he speaks.

"You're a healer?" His large brown eyes are bright and intense.

"Yes." She can hardly deny the evidence of the staff in her hands.

"Please come. My friend needs your help."

There is no time to warn him that she is not fully trained, and that his friend might be better off in the hands of Sister Lena or Father Wrys. The swordfighter's steps are fast, even frantic, and Maria struggles to keep pace with him. Minerva strides along behind them, and Maria feels safe crossing the battlefield with her sister at her back. She cannot let herself panic; she promised Prince Marth that she would be a help to him, and now is the time to begin to fulfill that promise.

Maria follows the swordfighter to the side of another mercenary; the man is in a grave state, ashen from blood loss and unresponsive to his friend's entreaties that he wake.

"Please," the boy says as he pants for breath. Strands of dark-red hair cling to his cheeks. His hair is near to the color of Maria's own, and she wonders if this mercenary might not hail from her own country of Macedon. Immediately, though, she chides herself- _concentrate, Maria. This is no time for idle thoughts_.

Maria places her staff against the unconscious man's bloodied shirt. She closes her eyes, and begins to chant the Heal spell under her breath. Maria feels healing magic flow from within her; it is channeled through the staff and reaches out for the wounded man like invisible tendrils of some clinging plant. The tendrils cannot find a place to latch on, and Maria recoils in shock as the spell fails. There is no life in this man to nourish; his body is an empty shell.

"I am sorry," she says, lightheaded from the botched spell. "I cannot help your friend. He... he does not live."

Perhaps she could have been more gentle with the red-haired boy; he reacts to the news with a shout, and shakes his head fervently.

"He can't be. I... I could hear his heart beating." The boy throws himself down beside his companion and places an ear against the fallen man's chest. "It's beating, I tell you."

Maria feels slightly ridiculous, as her staff has already told her the truth, but she too goes to her knees beside the wounded man. She looks him over briefly, wondering if her eyes deceive her. She can already tell much about him- that he is, or was, some years older than his companion, that he has the dark-blond hair and long face of a southeasterner, of a man of the Holy Kingdom or one of the surrounding isles. And plainly, the man is not breathing, has no pulse or any other sign of life. Yet, Maria gingerly places an ear to his still chest, and listens for as long as she can find tolerable.

"I hear nothing," she says, and looks to her elder sister for help.

Minerva takes out her dagger and scores a line across the blond man's arm. The cut does not bleed at first; when the blood does come, it seeps slowly.

"Dead," Minerva says. "I am sorry."

For a moment, the boy pales, and Maria sees a scattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. Then he buries his face in both hands.

"You might have been kinder, sister," Maria says as Minerva leads her away.

"The world is full of grief. He has no right to waste your time."

Her sister is right, of course. In the time Maria might spend trying to resurrect a dead man, others with a chance to live might perish. Save for the mythical staff of Aum, there is no staff or spell that might raise the dead. Maria must learn to be more efficient, must learn not to heed the calls of those asking the impossible of her. Still, she looks back at the grieving boy, at his small wiry figure and his wind-tossed auburn hair.

"He heard the sound of his own heart, beating in his own ears. A common mistake," says Minerva, and her words are less harsh now. "Think no more of it, Maria."

Yet Maria thinks often of it, and remembers.

_To Be Continued..._

Note: The red-haired young mercenary is Radd and his companion is Caesar, in case that wasn't clear.


End file.
